


Paint the Sky Sable

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artists, F/F, Graffiti, My First Work in This Fandom, Other, Slow Burn, kinda modern au, lena is an orphan, mentions of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-03-30 14:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13953672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lena is a troubled kid. Kind of. She has an escape, though.Others, on the other hand, may not be as lucky as some.Modern Artists AU.





	1. p(a)int and hollow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLiteralSky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLiteralSky/gifts).



> Neat idea I've had for a while. Fixed it up and picked it apart some more, changed around some characters, wrote it up and voila, my first Overwatch fic. 
> 
> I hope this is good enough as a sort of debut to a new fandom. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Another cold night.

 

You’re sprawled on your barely made bed, staring up at your ceiling that you taped up with drawings, sketches and pictures. You add to it every day, every drawing session.

Few sketches or draws make the cut but hey, you’re proud of everything up there.

It’s a sight to behold as you fall asleep, too. You remind yourself to draw some sheep and stick them up and around, while curling over to lay on your side.

 _All this lurking is getting boring_ , you think, locking your phone and placing it onto your chest with a huff. You rest your eyes, mind fluttering back to more drawings, but not your own, this time.

The wind howling a backdrop to your mental journey, going through a gallery of the best art you’ve ever seen. You remember a few so etched in your psyche that you’d have to be changed as a person from the ground up to have _those_ erased, you think.

It’s what drives you.  

But it’s weird how that works, yet you can barely remember what your parents looked like.

You smack a pillow to your face, writhing and turning, ready to scream into it due to the sudden turn your thoughts took.

 _Fuck off, me,_ you think.

You huff more in anger and exasperation. The crashing of something glass stirs you.

And there’s the follow up, the sound of skin bashing against skin, an old friend of yours.

And you remember it well; be it school, be it a street in King’s Row, you’re used to it, it’s been with you all your life.

The little orphan, jumping from house to house, never settling in; how cliche, you think with a scoff. Or, at least the mental sound of one.

God only knows what all got you kicked out of places and families; fights, lack of obedience, the occasional theft. People can think what they want but all that was for a good cause.

Fights were often to stand up for the littlest guys, lack of obedience similar to how a soldier disobeys an order too inhuman to carry out. Just… significantly less _execution due to treason_ , you suppose.

Well, as cliche as it is, that fucked up turn of events landed you _here_ , in a semi-decent, high up apartment in King’s Row, in a room with a view to die for, hiding from what you thought was a person you could trust.

Doing something that could quite possibly be an escape one day.

Hiding isn’t really a proper word for it, it’s just laying about hoping he forgot about you.

The whistle of the wind and flutter of your curtains on the angled window masks _some_ of the whimpers coming from the adjacent room. Not all, but some.

Besides, the slaps and punches do just enough of a good job by themselves.

“Shut it, whore,” is audible and loud among the other drunken sounds, silencing any and all aforementioned whimpers the other side of your door. You can barely make out anything that the drunkard you attempted to call a father mumbled.

What you _do_ make out makes your blood run cold and makes you spring to your feet.

“Now, where’s that other,” a hiccup interferes, “little bitch?!”

The pain in your side as you get up with a hiss reminds you of the fine gentleman’s earlier handy work. _Under the clothes to hide the bruise, smart fucker._

You thank yourself for opening the window and make a mad dash for it as his heavy steps come to your door. You pocket your phone and climb.

The jiggling of the knob urges you further and you make it out, past the window frame and onto the roof above it, holding your breath steady and quiet as you seat yourself outside and just out of sight.

The click and open of your door is familiar and soon replaced with grunts of some sort or the other.

He doesn’t spend much time in your room once he notices you gone.

You exhale sharply.

 _Well done, Lena, you dash when that woman needs help._ She’s a saint, you think, probably one of the better mothers you’ve had.

Getting up, you pat yourself down, cursing yourself for not taking your bag with you.

 _Bollocks,_ you hiss and edge over to peer into your open window, upside down and notice the ‘originally black but now plastered with colors’ messenger bag sitting right across the door.

 _Door wide open, no chance of the drunk pillock_ not _spotting me._

 _Oh, right_. You reach into the window and grab your rugged canvas sneakers off the frame with a light giggle.

 _No dice on the bag, but man, am I smart._ You zip up your a-size-bigger blue hoodie after slipping on your shoes and walk up and onto the flat parts of the roof.

The rooves all around the Row provided somewhat of a sanctuary for anyone that needed it, vagrant, criminal, artist or otherwise.

Walking, you breathe in the rough air. Smells like charcoal, beer and a little of fresh bread from the small bakery down below you.

Also home. More than any other _conventional_ home.

Exhaling in frustration, you step over to one of your tags, one that someone sprayed over. It is-- well, _was_ , a white square with a loose black border, depicting a cartoon styled bear smiling, with the words ‘Don’t Panic’ above it.

 _I worked hard on that one,_ you stomp with a pout, miffed someone would do that, _it was a nice message, too. The snout I drew was really cute._ All they did was write their name flamboyantly.

 _Ramos,_  it read. 

_Who the hell is that bloke and why’s he ruining my work?_

You let your shoulders fall disappointedly and start to sulk because you forgot the bag.

Deciding to clear your head some, you turn and grapple a high wall, jumping up to take a seat on it, right next to a chimney, above the sprayed tag, and stare at the beauty the Row has on offer.

 _A bird could get used to this_ , you think and sigh, leaning back on your hands.

Bellowing smoke enraptures, almost frames, the scenery of brick-clad buildings dotted with an occasional warm, orange light, the dark grey of the smoke painting across a starry nights sky.

After sitting there a few minutes and enjoying the view, you deduce your mind is clear enough and now instead full of the aforementioned bread you keep smelling.

_Don’t have my wallet on me and my days of pilfering food to survive are long gone._

You exhale, sharper this time, and roll backwards and onto your feet.

_Hate to leave her, but there’s not much I can do. Might as well check my tags and exercise a little while I’m about._

You stretch your legs a little and give your torso a twist, kick up your knees to your chest in the dark sweats you’re wearing and balance on the balls of your feet, then kick off into something between a jog and a run.

The long lines of houses in the Row made something of a network of roof to sprint on. In the morning, you ran in the streets for exercise but the night was a different story.

You pass by one piece, a small pistol, a real life model but painted in the colors of a toy, with a little flag sticking from the barrel, the words ‘Pew, Pew, Pew!’ placed around it in rough, sprayed text.

Not your finest work, but good nonetheless, and perfectly fine. Onto the next one.

You sprint by the second one, leaping across a gap you’ve leapt across so many times, you could do it blindly. The second one is nothing fancy, it’s your first name in a wildstyle font, almost barely comprehensible.

You made the damn thing, you tell yourself, so why’s it still so hard to read?!

_I mean, that’s wildstyle for you._

Shrugging at your thoughts, you bounce about, ready to take off again, but there’s shivers down your spine.

Feels like you’re being watched. You take a glance about inconspicuously, pretending you’re just stretching again, but the second time is more obvious. Nothing.

 _Weird,_ you think and shake the feeling off.

A reluctant huff later, though, and you’re running again.

Noticing something, you come to a grinding halt.

_Oh, crap, its the plod._

You notice the police officer examining your last work: a wide collage, featuring an expressionless, white face with a grey mask for spraying, similar to the one in your bag, on its face, with different colored edged lines bursting from the middle outwards, with a blank ribbon across the bottom side of the piece, in an off-white, almost parchment white.

The short police woman takes a few looks around rather than directly at the art, before leaning into the radio, muttering a word or two, and wandering off, back into the rooftop access point.

You relax and wonder what the police is doing up here. It makes you a tad uneasy but it’s nothing you don’t shake off quick.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a shadow that looks off. The moment your eyes center to it, whatever bothered you is gone.

 _Jesus, Lena, you need to calm down a little._ Shaking your head, you contemplate if you had gone insane, but instead chalk it up to the empty stomach.

Checking your phone clears up the fact that it’s far too early to come back home. _Drunk bastard is probably still at large_ , you think, _I could use some grub back home, I think there’s cup noodles still left in the fridge._  

 

_A walk might suit me well, for now._

 

*** * ***

 

Roaming the cobbled streets never gets old; there’s always something going on around you, whichever way you go.

 

You marvel at the sights like the first time every time, despite the fact you know a handful of nooks, crannies and the sort.

A few hi’s, holler’s and sights taken in, for the god knows which time, you stop, make a content ‘ah’, thinking a drink or two wouldn’t hurt, and enter through the battered looking door.

On the other side of said battered door, you are greeted by a rush of warmth and a drunken song; the cheery kind, not the ‘slap your wife around’ kind, sung by a drunken chorus of people in a giant half group hug.

A warm light, dull and orange in all its glory, the smell of something sweet lingering with beer and the wide smile of the pubkeep behind his tracker beard. This can only be _The Fox and The Quill._

“Lena! Good to see you, little lamb,” boomed the heavy set man behind the bar.

“Good to be here, Rickard, honestly,” you say in an exhale, placing yourself on a stool.

The smile on his face turns serious and he places both elbows on the counter top, looking at you.

“I _was_ about to ask you if you had come here because of some bloke chatting you up and you wanted him gone or something, but the serious look on your face tells me otherwise.”

Despite your best efforts to not show anything, Rickard always _could_ read people like an open book. That thought draws a small smile to your lips.

“Like I’d need an old geezer to help me with boy trouble, I’ve fought people twice my height and I _bet_ I could take you on.”

That laugh of his bellows through the area round you, “ _There_ she is, I had wondered what happened to the Lena I knew,” and again, his smile faded to something a bit more serious, yet he was still smiling, “Seriously, though, if you ever do need help, I just hope you know you can count on me.”

And your expression darkens a little too, but the smile permeates, “Thanks, Rick, I know. Even if you do tell me twelve times a month.”

He smiles again and rises, “What can I say, I like my regulars happy and content rather than annoyed or bothered. What’ll it be, kid?”

You wave it off with your hand, “Just the usual, nothing strong, though. And pu--”

“Goes without saying, kiddo,” he waves it off with the hand that was dragging the rag around on the counter,  “You look like you've had a helluva day. Coming up.”

 

You smile.

 

*** * ***

 

While Rickard works behind the counter, him and all of his brown hair atop what looks like a solid one hundred and ninety centimetres, probably more, you look elsewhere.

 

There’s a game on in the background, with many faces plastered to the screen, cheering or booing when appropriate, in their own drunken wave of bodies, with red and white scarves on most of them.

A few tables, high and low, remaining civil, which is surprising considering the atmosphere; it's hard not to get sucked into the match along with all of them; hell, _you’re_ finding it hard not to get sucked in.

You’re not too surprised to see anyone you know but you remember, _duh, Lena, it's because you have barely any friends._

Still, would have been nice to see a familiar face.

After a while, you’re leaned onto the bar rather than sitting on the stool, and finding it easier to join in on the cheers that are for whatever.

Halfway through your drink, a glass of something dark, one or the other side has landed a goal, a fairly impressive one at that, and people cheer.

People cheer so hard one elbow lands into your hand and the aforementioned drink is on your hoodie in several specks. Mainly one large one.

_Pillock!_

“Oh, hell, I’m sorry!”

A count-to-ten later and assuring the person who spilled you’re fine, you head to the bathroom, trying hard not to get _slapped_ on accident, or something stupid like that.

 _That could bloody well happen, considering my luck today._  

You find yourself woefully unable to scrub the stain out with water. Hissing through your teeth some more, you manage a groan against the tiled ceiling and deal with the fact that your favourite hoodie is now stained.

 _This stain isn’t very covert, to be honest._ Then again, neither was the bright blue colour of the hoodie, now was it?

With a slump of the shoulders, you basically march out of the bathroom, and into the crowd, keeping against the counter. With your drink… well, _done,_ you choose to instead leave, waving a goodbye to Rick.

Both feet on cobbled road, it's noticeable precisely how _warm_ it is in there. You pull your hoodie tighter to you, shuddering lightly in the nightly air.

A single step and _woosh_ , a bike zooms past you, going over a puddle.

“Sorry,” the bloke on that bike yells back all the while driving away.

It takes all the willpower you have to not growl in the street, like a bloody maniac, but you manage. Besides, you’re wired to be unable to hate people when they say ‘sorry’.

Your shoulders slump, _again,_ but this time around, the head follows.

“Today just isn’t my day, huh,” you ask yourself, aloud and to no one in particular with a heavy sigh and a hair readjustment.

 

You walk along the same cobbled road again, with more or less of your awe extinguished.

 

*** * ***

 

You find some of that awe, though, when you stumble into an art gallery after choosing to go as away from the bar and your home as possible, and it was one gallery you hadn’t seen before.

 

Looking down, you feel as if you couldn’t be more out of place against the pristine white, what with your stained clothes and loud colors. The workers seem to agree, what with everyone raising their noses, pretending not to see you.

 _Gonna be hard seeing as I’m the only one here,_ you realize and snicker to yourself.

The foyer alone was astounding, featuring what _pompous_ people would call _proper art._ Of course, this is minus the _'s_ __treet_ art isn’t real art'  _ act you keep hearing.

_If I had a penny for each kilometre of eye roll, I’d be rich by now and could fly off to somewhere where people wouldn’t hound me._

A lap later and still, you couldn’t quite deduce whether this was one single artist or one single direction, but it doesn’t take a genius to notice everything seemed to fit to a direction; classicism. _Probably._

There’s statues around the gallery too, and the one catching your eye, an angel and a woman in a lover’s embrace, is a masterpiece of marble, done in such detail that it makes it almost life like.

The next one captivating your attention is another sculpture; two men, this time, in an… _odd_ pose. You can tell it's wrestling, totally, because you’re _that_ mature, but it's hard to tell at an angle.

You find it peculiar that one man has no facial features and the other has a hole for a nose.

The next work you find yourself at reminisces you of your maturity, because you giggle a little at how _stupid_ his haircut looks; a self portrait by an artist, seemingly one who has made most of what’s in this gallery.

The man, seemingly in his then fourties or so, with a black button-up shirt over a white, basic one, with curly and frizzy hair, in weird angles.

_Hey, kinda like mine!_

He’s sitting down against an intricate backdrop. Intricate only because the detail you find in the bookshelf behind him is not something done often.

You notice you’re too close to the art when a worker clears his throat loudly.

“Sorry,” you beam a smile with that apology and wander more.

The artwork adjacent is eye-catching as well. 

An older style of painting replicated, this one reminiscent of _neo_ classicism, depicting a wide, war torn and scorched field, a distant tree with a woman, sitting down in a middle-of-dance pose, prepared and strained, in a bright white dress, underneath a cracked sky.

There’s no plaque to it, you find to your bemusement, seeing as this is probably among the best, if not _the_ best you’ve seen. However, there’s a name in the corner, in silver penmanship, no less, about as intriguing as the painting itself.

 _Guillard._ There it stands, a contrast to its backdrop. 

You hope there's mo- Oi!

You’re picked up by the scruff of your hoodie, and a french and _oh so violently pompous_ accent beams at you, “I’m sorry, miss, but your presence is unwanted here; you are making other visitors uncomfortable.”

“That’s poppycock, show me the other visitors, I know for a fact there’s no one else here!”

Struggling against the hold didn’t prove much use, curse your short arms!

“Hey!”

 

Struggling some more, you curse a few times, _I have a right to be in there_ and other ignored shouts. The two of you are outside far faster than you thought it would have taken you; you could have whined some more or maybe even landed a punch.

 _Oof,_ and oh great, you’re in a _puddle_.

_Fuck._

“Tu es bêtes comme tes pieds…” the french guard grumbles and goes back in, dusting his hands as the sliding glass door closes seamlessly.

“You asshole, you could have at least dropped me someplace dry…”

You get up, glad you’re _relatively_ dry and curse the guard out some more.

 

You groan against the sable sky and hike back home, or in the general direction, with your hands in your hoodie pockets, kicking any pebble you find along with you, as your little stoney companion.

 

*** * ***

 

By the time you’re anywhere near home, you realize ‘stoney companions’ don’t make for very much company, contrary to their misleading name.

 

The more you left for the apartment blocks, the thinner the crowd in the streets got, _Not much reason for people who don’t live here to be around here,_  you think and shrug, indifferent to the popularity of where you live.

Even with that thought, though, you notice the little crowd of about four people, huddled under a tall building, all looking up.

_What’s so interesting up there?_

You approach them, hands pocketed and look up, not quite making out what they’re all staring at.

_I don’t understand the de-_

And then you hear it. You hear what you could quite possibly classify as the best piano playing you have heard in your life.

Not much praise, seeing as you’re not really an avid piano listener but hey, you weren’t lying.

Suddenly, it's easy to understand why these people are here. The music is enchanting, and it doesn’t take you long before you forget you were even standing.

You snap back to reality, giving your head a little shake and flutter your eyes into a few rapid blinks.

 _That was weird,_ you think, and sigh wistfully, looking up still and repocketing your hands.

_Wish I could stick around and listen in some more, I really wish, but the pillock-in-charge might lock up if I’m gone for long. Don’t wanna sleep out again._

 

You’re on your way halfway through that thought. Your mind keeps going back to the beautiful piano playing you bore witness to.

 

*** * ***

 

Enough dexterity gets you to the top of the roof.

 

You’re feeling a little exhausted, what with being sleepy and oh, after getting tossed _into a puddle_. You stick on one last serious face and tread carefully to the still open window.

_Oh, thank whatever got him drunk enough to forget._

Peeking over into the window first, you scout your room, upside down. A nice ‘look both ways before crossing the street’-like sweep of the room, you roll over and onto your feet, quickly getting in.

On instinct, you check the room again, noticing the bedroom door still open, with the light seeping through. You sneak up to the door, peeking into the adjacent room slowly and notice the drunken bastard passed out on the couch.

_Oh, thank whatever got him drunk enough to pass out. And thank whatever is preventing me from bashing his head in._

The rather grim thought takes you aback. An arched eyebrow expresses your own surprise as you shake your head. _Calm down, Lena, last thing you need on your record is homicide._

You carefully, _carefully_ , shut the door.

Shoulders visibly slump and you relax, especially after locking the door.

Taking the hoodie off is a bothersome process, as is placing your shoes at the foot of the window. You land into your bed with a rather loud _thud_ after undressing and dressing into the basics for sleep.

_Lena, you idiot!_

You hiss at yourself and hold your breath, one eye open and both ears working, hoping you didn’t wake him up.

The snores confirm your thoughts and you sigh again, in relief.

Growing weary every second makes it very hard for you to keep your eyes open.

The last thing you think of as the light of your phone is about to shut off is that _amazing_ piano playing.

 

You can’t figure out why, but that’s what happened. You fall asleep.


	2. pallete of pain(t)

_“Wow, Lena, you should have seen it,"_ a girl’s voice chimed from the other side of the line.

 

 _“Sucks you couldn’t join us, it really does,”_ the voice continues after a short pause.

Your lips turn to a sad smile…

“Yeah, wish I could have too, but…"

Yet it fades as quick as it got there into something more natural: a happy expression, and a rarity, these days.

“You know the deal with uptight parents!”

Just like your expression, your tone spoils too. The person chuckles, their voice thin and taut through the phone’s speaker.

_“Yeah, I know the deal. Say, why don’t you sneak out next time?”_

“I’ll remember that when the chance comes around, for sure.”

_“And we’ll be waiting for you when it does. But, I will talk to you later, Annie’s smashed and we’re--”_

_“-- Lena! Woo!-- ”_ shouts a drunk voice from somewhere; your name, slurred, is just about the only thing you can make out. Your friend stays unfazed and continues the conversation,

_“-- taking her back home. You know Annie and her habits, she always overdoes it.”_

You giggle along, "I can hear that. Tell everyone I said hi. I’ll talk to you another time, then.”

_“Sure, see you!”_

“Bye bye.”

Click.

 

You put away the phone and roll down your folded sleeves.

With a sad smile, you put your hood up and start walking down the damp streets of King’s Row again. It's pretty early in the morning; the market stalls in the streets are being set up, still, and there’s not a lot of people in the streets.

Normally, you let yourself zone out while walking, only barely paying attention not to hit anyone. Right now, though, you don’t zone out, choosing to take in what sights King’s Row offers, instead.

With the rather unpleasant smell aside (that luckily clears soon), there’s a lot of things to see in King’s Row, which proves it's not just a crime infested relic of an age gone by.

Most of the things you think of visiting are probably kind of hard to reach, with the biggest obstacle not being _shanked_. But once you manage to get there, hopefully unshanked, what you had in mind would certainly be very beautiful to see.

There’s is that one piece of art Lena has always admired; a human body with the head of a rat, in its hands a camera, done in black and white. It is placed in such a way that it looks as if it's hiding behind the nearby payphone.

Then, you remember, there is that mural of… what you _think_ is a prairie dog, but… you never were quite certain that is what you think it is. The mural is also, coincidentally black and white, and it takes up one half of a three-story tall wall of an abandoned apartment building.

Lena started noticing a pattern in her choices.

And another you always did like, is the one of the maid raising the wall like a curtain and kicking dust under it, like you do with carpets.

Then there is that one of a saint with a spray mask on, surrounded by wonderful colors, then that one whe-

“Sorry,” you eek out, passing by the person you just bumped into on accident.

_I’m ought to watch where I’m going…_

You shake your head and adjust your hood, looking up.

It's been a few days since you’ve heard the piano’s notes flow through the air, so you curse the past rain and clouds that follow, for muffling the one source of happiness, damn it.

More _your_ happiness that anyone else’s, but… Lena isn’t quite ready to admit that to herself. And probably never will be.

You manage your own way up, climbing fire escapes and power boxes amongst other things, onto the rooftops, wanting to just… see. See something past the dank and damp streets you still love.

Reasoning doesn’t always have to make _much_ sense to you. _Does it?_  


The city looks subdued.

Subdued and grey, close to death. It _looks_ like it, like death, from up above, and there’s very few words you’d use to describe past that; these days are few and far between, the ones with the thoughts of death and nothing but. You tilt your head thoughtfully.

None of the bright lights, nor the street lights are on yet. Not counting the dreary clouds, the culprit possibly being the Omnic situation that’s arisen, recently; all the Omnic terrorist attacks and demonstrations, speaking against the opposite of what everyone sees, and all that.

That same situation is the reason a girl in your class lost a dad. You sigh inwardly and close your already half-lidded eyes.

 _She told us all that he was a firefighter_ , you recall that moment from the past, on top of the ledge you’re perched on, and remember seeing later that day on the news.

Died trying to save another. _He was a hero, she said._

 _Must suck_ , you shrug rather coldly.

Then sigh in exasperation, clasping your hands on your face.

_That’s not you, Lena._

You rub the back of your head, crack your knuckles, _Let’s not think like that again, shall we,_ you think, and lean back onto your hands to stare over King’s Row some more.

After a while, you ‘huh’ to yourself, noticing something and point in a direction on the vista.

 _There used to be a building there._  


Another sigh.

 

*** * ***

 

A while passes.  


A longer while passed. You roam in circles and find yourself in the same place, the same ledge.

You spring from the ledge with a huff and aim to tread home. That was, _was_ , the plan.

It _was_ the plan until you notice something, something rather peculiar.

A wall, and a rather popular tagging spot stands equipped with a very… nice message, written out in ugly letters, it's background a patchwork that’s somehow even uglier than what it's supporting.

‘BEGONE OMNICS’ is all it says, big, bold letters on top of an ugly background covering most of everyone’s work. It's a message, and a clear one, no matter how outdated the wording and no matter how rude of a move.

And, well, no matter how ugly the work is, it does it's job. You try to wish it away but laugh at it shortly.

 _Begone,_ you chuckle, _what is this, the 14th century? I didn’t realize that term was still used._  


And at that moment, an idea springs (you do too, with it) and you decide to run home.

 

*** * ***

 

You return.  


And with a large can of paint you had stashed a while back.

A while ago, after one of the gang hideouts nearby got raided by the police some time ago, some things were left behind, this paint can among them. At the time, it was all you could effectively carry. You remember that having been a happy day.

You smirk, shaking one of the smaller, handheld  spray cans, thinking: _Can’t just leave it blank after I’m done,_ putting it back where it stood.

 _Now, what should I put up after I’m done covering this up,_ you ponder.

You hum and snicker to yourself, slightly aloud. Whilst walking around in the process, you fail to hear something pretty important.

The hair on your arms rises and your ears perk up, and you turn to look behind you, because of this feeling. You’re met with a hood-obscured face, throwing a punch in your direction.

“Wh-” you start, ineffectively.

The punch connects with your cheek, and you fall on your behind with tears welling up.

“What do you think you’re doing, you little twat?! I’ll gut you like a fish for touching my shit!”

Your mind races well over 60 kilometres an hour despite your daze and once you figure out how to function, you start to struggle, “Let me go!” you attempt to coerce him.

“Like hell I will,”-- you don’t think it worked, “You’ll pay, girl.”

He places your arms behind your back and in a swift motion, picks you up and forcefully throws you against the floor again. It knocks the wind from your lungs in a cough.

You try to stand with what little breath you manage to catch, but the attempt grinds to a halt when you feel the knee in your back, and feel it slamming you back down.

“Now you’ll see what happens to little wannabes.”

You hear a distinct _chk_ of a switchblade and your eyes widen some.

He brings the blade to your throat--

 

“Argh! Fuck! What the bleeding hell was that?!”

The attacker stumbles back, and off of you, dropping the switchblade on the ground in the process, and his hands go up to the side of his face. Your eyes dart to the blade, then to him.

You dash for the blade, kicking it off the roof. He dashes for it, sluggishly, so out of reflex you punch him when he jumps after the knife, and in your direction; right in the other side of the face, right in the temple.

He falls back and curses something at you. You can’t hear him at all because your ears are ringing from the punch, still, and your hand hurts, _fuck,_ from the punch, _still,_ and it hurts and you’re running.

You hiss the pain through your teeth and make a mad dash.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,_ you think, over and over, like a broken record.

You scramble up a ramp-like, metal roof and hear the patter of another set of feet behind you, scrambling up the same roof, so you pick up the pace.

While running, he yells more. You _really_ can’t hear what it is he’s saying but he sounds mad. Understandably so.

You vault over a low wall and narrowly dodge a chimney with a jerk of your right shoulder, then jump, like an antelope would, to avoid a low pipe in the floor. Well, floor of the roof, technically. Whatever.

After more running, you take another jump, across a smaller gap this time, but you land awkwardly upon landing, returning to your old speed only when the twinge in your ankle goes away, finally. Your pursuer, on the other hand, lands the jump just fine.

Another dash across the flat roof, without noticing the downward drop.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ you think, while sliding down to impending doom, before you notice the small ledge at the very end of your impromptu slide.

You leap off when your foot touches the small ledge with all your strength, and your chest collides with the cold bricks and sheet roof. You cough again, and your lungs are out of air. Huh, deja-vu.

Struggling, you manage to scramble up onto the ledge, and hopefully safety, so you hide, your head down and your hands shaking, partly due to the nights cold taking over slowly.

Eventually, you can hear him, winded and taking strained breaths from somewhere over where you jumped from. You hope he can’t see you.  

“This isn’t over, you little slag! I’ll find you another day then, if not today!”

The strained breaths move somewhere, and you hear him stumbling. You hope that away from you is his intended direction. With your heart still pounding, you shake your head, getting rid of your one-hundred mile stare.

 _Christ Almighty,_ you think and exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, peeking your head over the wall you were hiding behind, _that was_ too _bloody close._

You straighten out, dusting your clothes off with your working hand and cradling the possibly injured, possibly something-broken one. It does hurt like a bitch, who knows what you’ve done to it now. You never knew how to punch properly.

His words come back to you as you regain full consciousness, and the ringing in your ears finally stops soon after.

 _‘I’ll find you another day, then,’_  


You shiver at the very thought.

 

*** * ***

 

Your eyes are tired by the time you arrive.  


Or, well, re-arrive.

Under the pale light of a full moon, you come back to the site of the altercation from before. While looking at the area right under the graffiti, your back hurts a little just with remembering.

Surveying the area reveals just about what you expected. The knife is gone, the paint can is still, luckily so, there, and past that, nothing’s changed. In reality you hoped nothing has fallen out of your pockets in the initial struggle.

Yep, everything’s the same, nothing changed. Apart from the palette at your feet.

 

The palette? Last time you checked, you were doing your art with spray cans, not palettes.

Then again, you haven’t checked in a while. Maybe that guy hit you harder than you thought?

Tilting your head in confusion, you pick it up to inspect it, and notice the crack along it. It's made of high quality wood, judging by how pleasant to the touch it is. You couldn’t tell of _what_ wood it is for the life of you, but all you know is that it feels nice to the touch.  

Feels sturdy, too.

 

Your eyes widen suddenly, and you make the connection. The moment when he dropped the knife, gripping the side of his head? It… makes sense now…

Angling approximately to how the two of you fought, of what little of your memory from that moment isn’t dazed, you act it out, kind of. You position yourself to where you were and aim as to how it would have hit him while he was over you.

The quality of the wood surprises you again, which doesn’t really make sense; when you think of high quality, this neighbourhood isn’t really high on the list of things that come to mind.

There’s only one place that something like this would have come from. Eyes divert to the balcony, the piano balcony, the aptly named balcony. It's right across from where you’re standing.

You blink in confusion, trying to figure out why anyone from over _there_ would help you.

Nevertheless, you wrap the palette it up and stash it inside your bag, hoping to find who threw it and give it back. And say ‘thanks’ obviously… yep…

You look to that same big, barely illuminated balcony that emanated piano notes days ago, and it only makes sense, it must be the same person as the piano player. What doesn’t, though, is _why?_

Why would anyone in this world give a fuck about you?

You blink a few times, realizing you’re sounding more and more like that sentient trash can that’s supposed to be your father. Father enveloped in quotation marks; a father only by trade but nothing else…

You keep thinking it over, occasionally glancing back at the balcony, half hoping the person responsible walks out, and half hoping they don’t so you can finally slink back home and hide, hoping no one notices your face, in case that guy left a mark, then sleep.

Or cry and then sleep, whichever comes first.

In your peripheral vision, though, as you walk away, you spot something.

You swear what you see is wisp of black hair, move away swiftly from the doorframe of the balcony.  


Blinking up a storm, you walk away with chalking it up to lack of sleep.

 

*** * ***

 

The brush is against you.

 

Every stroke angers you, weakens you, knowing well what will happen once you don’t do it right.

You groan something, another something, and ‘Merde,’ against the night sky of your open balcony, not wanting to stab the canvas with your brush _just_ yet.

Stopping, you take breaths, calming ones. _Mother always said that anger was never ladylike._

Stop, breathe, start again.

 

It doesn’t work, and you ‘stop, breathe, start again,’ into the night, with no success.

You knew you had to see it one more time to be able to do it, but… you were never an optimist. You don’t know when an opportunity will show it's head again.

Never able land _just_ the right stroke of brown, _just_ the right tinge of hazel, never ever _ever._ It is like the biggest riddle you ever had, as if that memory was diluted and, and simply remembering it is hard.

It is infuriating to you, possibly beyond words. Your pathetic vices aside, you pray to gods, high and mighty, that something does happen, something that helps you; you have no idea what, just _something…_

You know you won’t be granted that luck, you never are. Blinking the tears away, you walk to the edge of the balcony and think back to days passed, times you almost did…

You shudder. Now is not a time like that.

 

 _“Amélie,”_ calls a voice from elsewhere, from far away, yet the slight panic is still there, no matter how far away.

You cover the canvas, shoving it in with all the others next to your art-supply-littered table and stand in the middle of your room like a deer in headlights, expecting something.

“Va te coucher,” comes a stern voice that sounds the furthest thing from ‘motherly,’ when the door pops open slightly.

A hand turns off the lights just as quickly as the command is issued and the door shuts, leaving you to your own devices.

Stopping for a second, you blink and your shoulders slump, but you obey, and slide into bed, disappointedly. You dare not think what happens when you don’t listen.

Luckily, that was just Mother.  
  


You cry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the great and wonderful [DrSwiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSwiss), check him out for more great Overwatch fics!!

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted to a dear friend, [with great rareships](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSwiss) who also helped me a lot with ironing out ~~most~~ parts of this fic. 
> 
> <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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